So I shall never forget the horror and self-reproach I felt when one bright autumn forenoon, the older boys being at work in the fields, glancing out of an upstairs window I saw Chris talking to a man, a stranger. Right in front of the house the two were standing, Chris swaying on his feet a little and his petticoats blowing in the wind, looking up into this man’s face and laughing.
“Chris! Chris!” I cried out in an agony. “Come away!”
Chris looked up at me and laughed, but did not stir, and the man actually bent down and took the child’s hand in his own.
Then I gave a wail of anguish, for the plague infection is easily carried by touching, and I ran down and out before the house, and cried to Chris again and snatched him away and ran, scolding over my shoulder at the stranger.
“I have not been in Bradford, Penninah,” he called after me. “I have come directly hither from Wakefield. Believe me, I have not been nigh any infection.”
At this use of my name I turned to look at him, and I knew him at once; it was Giles Ferrand. Though indeed he was greatly changed, poor man; his shanks shrunken, his florid face flaccid and melancholy, and part of his hair shaved off, revealing a swollen purple patch on his scalp which looked very tender. One of the moustaches of which he used to be so proud still stayed up firm and curled, but the other drooped mournfully, so that his fingers continually strayed to it. His eyes, faded and rheumy, had a piteous defeated look about them, like a beaten hound’s.
“I have not been nigh any infection,” he repeated stiffly. “I saw this youngster tumbling about by the beck just now, and went to his assistance, that is all.”
“Well,” I began, and paused and drew breath, for I was in doubt what I ought to say to him. “Well! You have returned from the war then, Mr. Ferrand?”
“Aye. I got a bang on the head at Marston, and it does not heal,” he said, lifting his fingers to the purple scar.
It seemed a sign from Heaven that he should approach our house holding Chris by the hand, and I thought: However it be, I cannot deny admittance to my own son’s grandfather. So I said:
“Come in, and welcome.”
His face brightened a little, and he followed me in and sat himself down by the fireside in the kitchen, and stretched out his hands to the blaze as if he had been chilled to the marrow. I noticed how white and thin and gnarled his fingers were, and how his shoulders stooped and his mouth pouted, in the manner of old people, and I remembered many old times when he had been kind to me, and how his wife had taught me her skill in embroidery, and I looked at Chris, who was leaning against his knee, and I remembered Francis. Then I felt a warmth in my heart towards the old man, and I spoke kindly to him, calling him Uncle Giles, and I fetched some ale and warmed and spiced it. He drank gratefully, but I saw his eye on the cheap rough tankard, though he was too mannerly to speak of it. This gave me an opening, and I said:
“We have had hard times at The Breck in your absence, Uncle.”
“The King’s men have had hard times, too,” he said, sighing mournfully.
“Doubtless; but the Hall has not been sacked like The Breck,” I told him.
“The Breck sacked?” he said, startled.
So then I told him what the Royalists had done to us, and he told me how, after the Earl of Newcastle had revoked the order for no quarter, there had been high words between them, and he had betaken himself to the garrison at York, to be out of the sight of Bradford. He had suffered all the siege of York, and fought at Marston Moor, and got away in the train of Prince Rupert, and marched all over England, and fought again at Naseby. The poor man, at first very stiff and mindful of the political differences between our families, as he spoke of his troubles grew softer, and presently broke down and wept on my shoulder very piteously.
“I have crept home to die, Penninah,” said he. “The King—God bless him!—is lost, and my heart is broken.”
“But they are still fighting,” I objected. “I know that our cause will triumph at last, but it surprises me that you already admit it to be so.”
“My heart is broken,” he murmured. “The King is vanquished.”
I pressed him to tell me why he thought so, but that day he would not, merely sighing heavily and shaking his head. To cheer him, I told him how his name and his laithe had saved our cow, whereat he exclaimed and smiled, then took to shaking his head again.
When my boys came in from the fields and found him there, Thomas frowned slightly and shrank into himself and barely opened his lips in greeting, while Sam glowered and was rude outright. I could not find it in my conscience either to command or to coax them into a more gracious behaviour to the cause’s enemy, though for my part I saw him only as a lonely old man; and Mr. Ferrand, seeing how things were, rose up and took his leave.
“You have three fine lads, Penninah,” he said, looking round at them wistfully. Chris, whom Sam had put into the high chair he had made for him, to be ready for dinner, chose this moment to laugh his golden laugh and beat joyously with his spoon; Mr. Ferrand stooped to him, smiling, and patted his cheek.
“’Tis long since I saw anything as good as you, little man,” said he.
It was a strange and poignant moment for me, tugging at my heartstrings almost as if it would break them. I could not speak.
Giles Ferrand, straightening himself, explained that he had brought Ralph back with him, and that he should keep only the old manservant to wait on him for the present, at the Hall. If Ralph could be of use with the harvest, he offered, we were to call on him—but here Sam glowered very noticeably, so I was obliged politely to refuse.
When he had gone: “Why did you invite him into the house, Mother?” said Thomas in his clear quiet voice. “He is a Royalist, and I do not like him.”
“He is your father’s uncle, a lonely old man who has lost both wife and son, and a defeated enemy; we must show him kindness and pity,” I said.
“I did not like Captain Ferrand,” said Sam shortly.
“But Mr. Ferrand loved him—as you love Christopher,” I said.
Sam glanced at Chris, who, his mouth smothered in porridge, gave him the sweetest, brightest smile imaginable.
“I never saw such a boy as you for getting your mouth dirty, Chris,” said Sam in a severe tone, wiping the child’s mouth energetically, “Never! Your hands, too!” Chris, looking serious, stretched out his hands, and Sam cleaned each little finger separately. “That’s better—that’s a good boy,” he said, mollified, and Chris, hearing in his tone that he was forgiven, smiled again and stretched out one clean hand to me to see what I thought of it.
After this Sam and Thomas did not glower and shrink, but behaved with a complete though cool respect, when they found Mr. Ferrand by our hearthside—which was well, for he came often. He did not stay long, and always hauled himself up and tottered away as soon as the boys came in, but he liked to sit an hour or two with me, watching me while I cooked or cleaned or sewed; it seemed to soothe and cheer him.
In these quiet hours Giles Ferrand talked and talked, flitting from one subject to another, as old people do, and I murmured occasional responses; he talked of his wife, of his son, and of his experiences in the war; of these last especially I heard many interesting particulars. I soon began to understand why he thought the King’s cause hopeless, for his tales revealed so much silliness, and so much confusion, among the King’s commanders, as did any Parliamentarian’s heart good to listen to. He spoke of Prince Rupert’s tiresome whimsies and fancies—his standard, which was nigh on five yards long, and embroidered in so thick a gold that it was almost as much as a man could do to carry it; his dog Boy, which he would always have near him even in battle, so that the poor thing lost its life at Marston. It seemed that the Earl of Newcastle had not been best pleased at Prince Rupert’s arrival to raise the siege of York; he was glad enough of the relief of the siege, but did not fancy giving up his command to a man so many years his junior. The Earl did not wish to give battle then at all, said Giles
Ferrand, but Prince Rupert said he had a letter from the King commanding it; he would not produce the letter when asked, however, which caused many of the officers to look at each other uneasily. Again, said Uncle Giles, the soldiers within York, when urged to march out and give battle, fell into a raging mutiny, they being many weeks in arrears with pay, and the Prince and the Earl must needs harangue them for an hour to get them moving. The Earl of Newcastle, he said, was ever kindly disposed to him on account of Francis, and on the very evening when Marston was fought, Giles was in the Earl’s coach smoking a pipe with him. The Prince had sent word that there would be no battle that night, so the Earl withdrew to his coach to be comfortable, when suddenly the ordnance began raging, and the Earl had to throw on his armour all in a huddle and rush out to the battle. After the defeat at Marston, Prince Rupert, to do him justice, wished the Earl to retire to the north and recruit his forces to fight again, but the Earl said no, he could not endure the laughter of the court at his defeat, he should fly to Holland.
“How can a cause be won with such commanders?” said Giles.
“How indeed?” murmured I, and I thought with great satisfaction of Sir Thomas Fairfax and Oliver Cromwell, who were commanders of such different quality.
“’Tis no wonder the King does not come into his own again,” lamented Giles, shaking his bruised old head, then putting up his hand to it.
“Does your head pain you, Uncle?” I said, to distract him from the King’s sorrows.
“No—no. I’ve always been strong and hearty, not one for pains,” said old Giles peevishly. “If I’d not had this bang on the head I’d have lived to a good old age, Penninah.”
I expect there were many such old Royalist soldiers crept home from the wars, by many a kitchen hearth that winter, crouched close to the fire to warm their blood thinned by hardships and rough weather, their feet and elbows well tucked in so as to be out of the way and seem to take up no space, their shoulders drooping, their voices droning. I daresay, too, they set their hostesses back a good deal in fuel and food and drink, as Giles did me. I did not grudge it, though sometimes I smiled ruefully over his appetite and his liking for a heaped-up fire. Baume wondered that I could be so kind to a Royalist, but in truth I was glad of his company, which made a very welcome extension to a social circle bounded for overlong by Isaac Baume and my two boys—then too, as the plague waned, with Thomas at Mr. Blazet’s and Sam at market or helping Isaac Baume on his land or ours, which we farmed together, my lads were much away from the house during the daytime, and I was lonely. Besides, Giles played with Chris and kept him occupied while I was busy.
Having nothing else to do, as it seemed, for he did nothing towards putting his land under plough or pasture, save to lay in a few poor-looking sheep, Giles was always ready to play with Chris some game of ball or marbles, or tell him stories. These were of a martial kind, or about horses and dogs and hawks and hunts and the like, such as Chris did not hear from our family, and which therefore engaged his attention. As his brothers were so often out or occupied, and I was busied with the work of the house, Chris grew to turn to Giles for amusement, and slowly, and to me very poignantly, the old man’s love fixed itself upon his grandchild. As Chris grew he was indeed a very lovely boy; his skin white, his nose straight, his eyes sparkling, his mouth very red and comely. His hair darkened a little from its baby gold, and swept about his head in great thick rich russet curls. He was always very merry and fond of fun, with a sweet golden laugh, full of affection and knowing no malice; it was no wonder anyone should love him. Giles began to bring him presents: a woollen ball, a bow and arrows, a whip, a set of red woollen reins for driving; none of these toys were new, and I guessed they had belonged long ago to Francis, and Mrs. Ferrand had treasured them. Then, too, Giles taught Chris to play bowls on his private alley. Best of all in Chris’s view, at Holroyd Hall there was a very ancient rocking horse, with painted red nostrils and black spots and somewhat threadbare tail; it was Chris’s greatest joy to ride him. And so we often saw Giles Ferrand and Chris together; sometimes Giles was seated, talking, twirling his moustache that drooped, his faded old eyes very wide and innocent as he told some lengthy story; sometimes they were about the land together, crossing the beck to the Hall or back again, Chris skipping and leaping about so that the old man seemed almost to totter in the wind of his passing. Well, even if Giles tore my heart some times by saying with a chuckle over some daring liveliness of the child’s: “My Frank was just the same when he was a lad,” yet Chris was learning good manners and speech from his grandfather, I thought—and besides, I was glad for the old man to have some interest to distract him from his politics; for by this time the Royalist cause was falling in ruin, and the King had fled away in total defeat to the Scots, who were now negotiating on what terms to deliver him to Parliament.
It was one day about this time, as I remember, that Sam, coming in on a showery afternoon and finding old Giles seated by the hearth as usual, said to him in a very loud voice:
“Have you signed your composition yet, Mr. Ferrand?”
Giles was in truth a little deaf, but not very much so, and like all persons in that predicament disliked to be shouted at; it was one of Sam’s ways of indicating his disapproval of Royalists, to speak loudly to him. But to-day I thought the old man’s vexation out of all proportion, for crying: “Eh? What? What are you talking about?” he rose up at once and almost ran from the house, though the rain outside still came down heavily. I scolded Sam a little, then asked what he had meant by his question. Sam said he did not properly know, but there was a great deal of talk in the market about delinquent Royalists’ estates being sequestered, or some such word, and if they wanted to be let off they had to sign a composition. It seemed to me then that old Giles had understood Sam’s question very well, and run from the truth of it, and I took the next chance I had to ask Isaac Baume about the matter. He told me: yes, it was true; the estates of all who had served against the Parliament were thus sequestered, confiscated wholly; but if the Royalist concerned made a petition saying he had given up his evil courses, and took the oath to Parliament, he was let off with a fine, and this was called making your composition. The great nobility, he said, were obliged to go to London to make this settlement, but he believed the lesser gentry could do it at the quarter sessions, locally. An oath had to be sworn before a minister or a magistrate.
“And what kind of a thing is this petition which must be signed?” I asked.
“Oh—a kind of obliging letter, d’you see,” said Baume.
“Will you find out what it should be, and I will speak to my uncle about it?” I requested him.
In a week or two he brought me a couple of papers which he said were copies of the compositions of certain Royalists in Halifax and Bradford; he had bribed some clerk or other to get them for him. They were writ in a somewhat crabbed hand, so I laid them aside for the moment, and that evening bade Thomas read them to me.
“This petition sheweth,” read Thomas in his clear voice: “That your petitioner was unhappily persuaded to take upon himself the command of Captain of a troop of horse under the command of the Earl of Newcastle, in which service he continued until September 1645, and being then convinced of his error——”
“Mr. Ferrand won’t like that,” said Sam.
“—did lay down arms,” continued Thomas, “and hath since lived at his house in Halifax since November last under the power of Parliament.”
“That suits Mr. Ferrand’s case very well,” I said.
“That he is heartily sorry for the said error and humbly submits to the mercy of Parliament,” concluded Thomas.
“Whew!” said Sam. “Mr. Giles Ferrand of Holroyd Hall won’t sign that, I promise you.”
“What does the other paper say, Thomas?” I asked uneasily.
“That your petitioner assisted the forces raised against the Parliament for which he craves pardon for his offence and voluntarily submitteth himself,” read Thomas.
“Why should you persuade him to make his composition, Mother?” said Sam. “Let him have his whole estate sequestered, or whatever it is; he’s a malignant Royalist and well deserves it.”
“His laithe sheltered our cow,” mentioned Thomas.
“You and our Mother are too good to live,” grumbled Sam. “It’s only Chris and me that has any sense in us.”
It was on Thomas’s lips, I saw, to say that Chris had a fondness for Mr. Ferrand, but I shook my head at him to forbid the utterance, for I did not want Sam’s love for Chris clouded by jealousy.
Next time I had Giles Ferrand to myself, I began in a very frank manner on him, saying I was sorry Sam had vexed him by referring to his composition, which must be a very sore trouble to him, although necessary.
“Necessary?” growled old Giles.
“Others seem to find it so,” I said, and I mentioned the names of some notable Royalists in the neighbourhood who, according to common gossip, had already compounded or were about to do so, Sir Richard Tempest of Boiling Hall being one of these latter. Giles seemed struck by this, and fingered his drooping moustache thoughtfully.
“Aye, but,” he burst out suddenly, “I shall have to take an oath and make a submission.”
“There is some sort of a negative oath, I hear,” I urged him, “never to fight again, or some such promise. It can be sworn before our Mr. Blazet here. If Sir Richard Tempest can take it, surely you can.”
“And there is a petition to draw,” he objected in a weakly, peevish tone.
“Why, that is simple,” I said cheerfully, and I began to tell him some of the words Thomas had read to me, which I had committed to memory for this end. But when I reached craves pardon, poor Mr. Ferrand went off like a cannon.
Take Courage Page 35